


Made of Gravity

by Bunglebee



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 09:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6652351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunglebee/pseuds/Bunglebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Foggy saves Matt, and one time he doesn't. College friendship up to the beginning of S2. Minor spoilers for S1. </p><p>"I warned him that the top of the Chrysler Building might not be the best hangout for a man who's, oh, I don't know, made of gravity...</p><p>... but Foggy's full of surprises today."</p><p>--Daredevil #23, 2013</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Five chapters total; updated daily until complete.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Daredevil or any of the characters in this story. Everything belongs to Marvel; I just bring these guys into my headspace every once in a while.

“Come on, Foggy, we’re gonna be late.”

Matt does a poor job trying to mask his frustration as he taps his feet nervously against the floor by his bed. Foggy’s answer is an unintelligible grunt Matt only barely registers over the heavy bass pumping through Foggy’s speakers. Matt rolls his eyes and Foggy continues digging in his closet for some clean clothes. They’ve only been at school for a week, and for any other person, finding acceptable clothing would not be such a monumental task. But Foggy seems perfectly content to let his clean and dirty clothes cohabitate in artfully-constructed and impressively large piles throughout the room--many of which have already taken up residence on Matt’s dresser, or desk, or floor space. Matt hasn’t really minded so far. He’s living with the man, after all, so his smell is everywhere anyway; it doesn’t really matter where his clothes go. But today...

Matt checks his watch again and frowns. From across the room, he can hear Foggy’s heartbeat jump slightly as he finally catches on to Matt’s impatience.

“Sorry, man,” Foggy says, as he pulls a shirt over his head, “I’m not really a morning person.”

Matt can’t resist a smile. “It’s 10:45 AM.”

“Like I said, not really a morning person.” His voice is closer now, and Matt can hear him slipping his backpack onto his shoulders. “Hey, you want an umbrella or something? I think I’ve got an extra one in here somewhere.”

Matt grimaces. He’d felt the change in air pressure earlier in the morning, so he’d known that rain was a possibility. But he’d lost track of the weather the moment Foggy turned on his music, which filled the tiny space of their shared room with sound waves so heavy that Matt could feel them bouncing off his skin.

“It’s raining?” Matt asks. Foggy nods and then waits expectantly for Matt’s response. The corner of Matt’s mouth twists up into a grin. “You just nodded, didn’t you?”

“Shit.” Heat rises to Foggy’s face as he nods again. “ _ Shit.  _ Dammit. Yes, sorry. It just started… the rain, I mean.” Matt laughs and stands up from the bed. He can smell it now that he’s concentrating--the wet pavement, the water collecting in tiny pools on leaves, the muddy trail trickling past the building… It’s not a heavy rain, but judging by the way the flag across campus is beating against its pole with every-increasing intensity, Matt suspects that the weather will get worse as the day goes on.

“I’ll grab a jacket,” he sighs, clapping Foggy on the back as he navigates the clothing minefield to his closet. 

“You sure? I know I’ve got another umbrella around here. Or, you know… I could help you look for yours?” Matt pushes aside some clothes in his closet, trying to hide his discomfort. They’ve been living together for a week now, but Matt is still not used to Foggy’s kindness. Until this point, the closest thing Matt has experienced to  _ kindness _ in the past nine years has been when the priest at the orphanage placed the communion wafer into Matt’s hand,  _ the body of Christ _ and the  _ amen _ making Matt feel as though--just for a moment--someone else in the world knew--and possibly even  _ cared _ \--that he exists.

But Foggy… Foggy seems inexplicably incapable of being anything  _ other _ than kind. As though it’s nothing at all. As though it’s something Matt’s  _ entitled _ to simply by virtue of the fact that the two of them exist in the same world. 

It’s been a week, and Matt still doesn’t know what to  _ do _ with this. Every time it comes up (which is  _ always _ ), he hears Stick’s voice in his head.  _ Stupid boy. He just feels  _ sorry _ for you because he thinks you’re weak. And you are--weak. The only reason you’re here is so the university can fill its diversity quota. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of this. _

And so on.

So Matt makes up some excuse about why he can’t go to a bar, or can’t go to the library, or can’t take a walk around campus, or  _ can’t can’t can’t.  _ And when Foggy leaves, Matt immerses himself in textbooks for classes that haven’t even started yet, telling himself that studying is the only way he can make someone-- _ anyone _ \--proud, even if that  _ someone _ is dead.

Matt turns and waves Foggy off.  “Nah, I’ll find it. Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“Suit yourself,” Foggy says, turning off his speakers on his way out the door.

Matt sighs as the door closes, taking a moment to revel in the weightlessness that accompanies the room’s sudden silence before trying to remember where he’d left his jacket. It takes him longer than it should to find it. There are half-opened suitcases and boxes everywhere, and in this unfamiliar space, Matt finds himself tripping over things more often than usual. 

Finally, he finds his jacket on his desk chair, underneath a box containing two-day old pizza. He touches his watch and groans in frustration when he realizes that there’s no way they can make it to class on time. Still, he pulls the door open and rushes out of the room, struggling into his jacket as he enters the hallway.

He realizes his mistake the moment he makes it--which is at least half a second too late. He turns left out of his room, expecting to step on solid, linoleum floor. Instead, his foot finds only air, and his forward momentum carries over the top of the stairwell that--in his haste to get to class on time--he’d forgotten was there. 

Instinctively, he reaches out his hands to break his fall. Except that he doesn’t fall. Instead, as he tumbles forward, he feels the firm, steady grip of someone’s hand catching him under his elbow. His cane, which slipped from his hand the moment he stepped out onto nothing, clatters harmlessly down the stairs. Whatever’s left of his pride follows behind it, echoing hollowly against the cinderblock walls.

“Whoa, dude. Stairs.”

Matt steadies himself using Foggy for support. Stick snarls in his ear:  _ Poor little blind kid, can’t even make it down a flight of stairs by himself. Didn’t I teach you anything? When did you get so soft? _

Matt hangs his head and leans against the bannister. Foggy jogs down the stairs to retrieve Matt’s cane. When he brings it back up again, he’s laughing.  _ Laughing.  _ Matt feels his shame in his blood now, wriggling and writhing through his veins with every beat of his heart. 

Foggy brushes the cane against Matt’s fingers, apparently unaware of Matt’s embarrassment. “Thanks,” Matt mumbles, grabbing the cane from Foggy a little too roughly. He turns and continues down the stairs. “Let’s go.”

Foggy chuckles again and hurries down the stairs after Matt. “Dude, I think Columbia will only appreciate your punctuality insofar as they  _ avoid _ getting sued by the blind kid they roomed at the top of the stairs.”

Foggy’s bluntness is disarming. Stick has no response to humor, and Matt smiles in spite of himself. He slows his step as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, allowing Foggy to catch up. 

As they step outside into the drizzle, Matt feels an elbow in his side. At first he thinks it’s an accident, so he doesn’t respond. But then he feels it again--more insistent this time. He turns to face Foggy, who keeps his crooked elbow outstretched. 

Realization finally dawns on him. People have offered to guide Matt a few times in the past; without exception, these  _ people _ have been  _ women _ who have been guiding Matt around their apartments, or--more accurately-- _ out _ of their apartments in the mornings. When Matt allows this to happen--which is rarely--it’s always to distract the women from realizing that he hasn’t asked for their number. No one else has ever offered, and because Matt doesn’t actually  _ need _ the help, he’s never asked.

He quirks his eyebrow at Foggy, wondering if he’s misinterpreting the gesture. 

Foggy shrugs. “I looked it up on the Internet.”

“That’s really… not necessary,” Matt says, Stick’s voice starting to ring more loudly in his ears.

Foggy’s elbow connects with Matt’s rib again, harder this time. “Dude, I’ve got more phone numbers from women in the past week than I have in my entire  _ life _ . I’m not about to give that up because you decide to go all Exorcist down the stairs.”

Stick is still sneering words like  _ pity,  _ and  _ pussy _ , and  _ worthless _ . But Matt is laughing, and against that laughter Stick’s voice is weak, barely audible. He folds his cane and reaches for the back of Foggy’s arm.

“The Internet, huh?”

“Yeah, man,” Foggy says, leading Matt forward. “They have entire YouTube channels devoted to this shit. I’ve watched all the videos. I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m pretty much a pro.”

Matt grins and inconspicuously steps over a puddle Foggy failed to mention. “Does the Internet happen to say anything about the importance of cleanliness in shared spaces?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expansion of Columbia drinking flashback in 1X10.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Daredevil or any of the characters in this story. Everything belongs to Marvel; I just bring these guys into my headspace every once in a while.

Matt hurries across the street to his apartment, pulling his light jacket more tightly around his chest in a reflexive response to the cold. It’s all he’s heard about all day: the cold. It’s one of the few “safe” conversations Matt finds himself having with strangers (and even acquaintances) again and again and again. After all, you can’t ask a blind man if he caught the latest episode of _Lost,_ or if he saw the score of last night’s Knicks game, or if he wants to join your rec soccer league, right? But you _can_ ask him how he feels about the fact that it’s 45 freaking degrees in April. Because everyone can agree that freezing cold weather on the last day of classes is pretty much the end of the world.

Right?

Honestly, cold weather--or, more accurately, _extreme_ weather of any kind--is not Matt’s thing. In the winter, icy blasts prick at his skin like thousands of tiny needles. In the summer, Matt constantly feels like he’s swimming, parting the microscopic drops of sweat and humidity in the air every time he moves. Foggy may think that Matt’s a “delicate flower” for insisting that their apartment remains, at all times, at a precise 74 degrees. But for Matt, it’s the only way he can keep from clawing his way out of his own skin.

But tonight… tonight Matt doesn’t mind the cold. Or at least, he doesn’t mind it as _much_. Tonight, the cold is armor--just like time and distance and _anything_ unfamiliar that Matt can wrap around himself and use to separate himself from that night _,_ thirteen years ago. That night when he ran through the muggy alleys of his neighborhood, not bothering for once to mask his skillful navigation of the myriad obstacles in his path, wiping  moisture that could have been fog or sweat or tears from his face as he barreled through the darkness. All the while chanting, _not him, not him, not him_ despite the sirens and the muffled voices and, eventually, the blood that told him otherwise.

Which is all to say that it was hot that night, but tonight it’s cold. And Matt thinks that helps a little.

He enters his apartment and pauses in the doorway, listening to see if Foggy’s home. Matt sighs when he hears the familiar _thudthud_ of his friend’s heartbeat, and briefly considers turning back out into the cold. But before he can make up his mind, Foggy rounds the corner from his bedroom to the living room, wrapped in the delicately balanced and uniquely-Foggy scent of Pert Plus, denim, and Febreze. Trapped, Matt closes the door and begins removing his jacket.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whaddya think you’re doing?”

Matt hangs his jacket on the hook by the door. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“ _Ehhhhh_ , wrong answer. I think what you _meant_ to say is, ‘Checking to make sure I have my wallet so we can go out and get _outrageously_ drunk to celebrate the end of classes.’ Unless of course you were planning to pre-game here. Do you want to pre-game here?”

Matt walks past Foggy into the living room, and sits wearily on the armrest of their couch. He’d hoped Foggy would be out with other friends by now. In fact, he’d been _counting_ on it. He’d been dropping not-so-subtle hints all week that Foggy shouldn’t wait for him to get back from his (fictional) Friday night study group before going out to bars. He thought these hints had worked when Foggy had stopped mentioning his last-day-of-class plans a few days ago. Clearly he’d underestimated the depth of his friend’s desire-- _need_ \--to commemorate every milestone, no matter how large or how small, with a healthy dose of alcohol.

Matt runs his fingers through his hair and decides to try another approach. “Sorry, man. Not tonight. I’m tired and I should really start studying… Maybe after exams are over, but--”

“ _Fuck_ that.” Matt lifts his eyebrow. “Yeah, yeah, _forgive me, Father,_ ” Foggy mutters sarcastically, and Matt feels the air around him move as he makes the sign of the cross in front of his face. “But seriously, _fuck that_ , dude. This is the _last_ day of our _last_ semester. You and your hangover can study all weekend while my hangover and I cuddle in bed. But tonight, we’re going _out_. No excuses.”

Matt shakes his head. “Blasphemy aside, the answer’s still no. Not tonight.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Foggy growls as he turns and walks into the kitchen. Matt closes his eyes in a mixture of guilt and relief, promising himself that he’ll make it up to Foggy. Tomorrow.

Matt hears Foggy open a bottle, and as soon Foggy gets the top off, Matt can smell its contents. It’s peat and citrus and sea air fermented and aged, and it is both the last thing and the _only_ thing that Matt wants to smell tonight.

“Then we stay in and drink here,” Foggy announces, walking back into the living room, two glasses in hand.

“This, my friend, is the good shit,” he says, tapping one of the glasses against the back of Matt’s hand. Matt clutches at it instinctively. “It’s older’n we are, and I swear to God it was bottled in the Motherland itself. I know you usually take the cheap stuff, but I figured--what the hell--you only graduate once, right?”

Foggy’s heartbeat picks up as he watches Matt expectantly. Matt frowns and says the first thing that comes to his mind. “We haven’t graduated yet, Fog.”

Foggy snorts. “Close enough.” He reaches out and touches his glass to Matt’s. “Cheers, buddy!”

The _clink_ of the two glasses sends a vibration fluttering through Matt’s fingers. And at that, all of his colddistancetime armor melts away, and a familiar ghost calls his name.

_It’s for you. You think I want your hands shaking like last time?_

Matt drinks. _Ugh, it burns._

He grips the couch more tightly, bracing himself for the pain. For the past thirteen years he’s spent this night alone doing everything in his power to forget. Get out of the City. Run until his body is so tired that all he can _think_ about is how tired he is, and all he can hear is the protest of his own muscles beneath his skin. Put on headphones and listen to music so loudly that he can’t hear anything at all. Can’t even think.

It never works. Matt’s armor always crumbles eventually, and when it does, the night always ends the same way: with Matt sobbing as he relives that night in every painful detail--the smells and the sounds and the tastes of it disfiguring his better-than-perfect senses like scars.

But tonight is different. Matt still feels the pain, but it’s distilled: sadness instead of anguish; a whisper instead of a scream. And he doesn’t understand _why_ this night is different, but he also doesn’t really care. His armor’s gone and Foggy bought some _really_ good scotch and somehow Matt’s holding it together. That’s enough for now.

“Ready for another?” Foggy grabs the glass from Matt’s hand and walks back toward the kitchen, already confident in his friend’s answer.

A smile tugs at Matt’s lips. “Maybe just one more.”

 

*******

 

 _One more_ turns into three more (or was it four?) and at some point Foggy convinces Matt to take a “victory lap” around campus. They stumble past familiar buildings and monuments, Matt’s senses allowing him to navigate  fairly well until Foggy has him take another hit from his flask. And then Matt’s reflexes don’t keep up with his senses anymore, and so he has to rely on Foggy to guide him (which Matt finds amusing since Foggy is maybe the least coordinated person he knows).

They talk, they laugh, like two normal college kids, and for brief moments, Matt forgets that he’s supposed to be sad. At one point, Foggy even has Matt recall the story of the first time he had alcohol. Somehow Matt doesn’t flinch as he talks about the scotch and the stitches, even though the retelling conjures up a vivid image of his father--one of the last true images he can remember. And when Foggy tells him that his dad would be proud of him, Matt thinks-- _hopes_ \--that maybe it’s true.

When they finally stagger back to their apartment at 3:00 in the morning, Foggy flops down on the couch while Matt pours himself a drink--of water this time. At one point during the night he’d accidentally nearly said something to Foggy about his heightened senses, which is a sure sign that he’s had too much to drink. He’s pouring a glass for Foggy as well (mostly in an attempt to mitigate the raging hangover his friend is sure to have in the morning) when Foggy slams his hand down on the couch.

“Oosa… newisa… la-ee paraiti… si!” Foggy slurs, triumphantly.

Matt hands Foggy his water and then sinks down onto the couch next to him. “Come again?”

“That’s ‘she was so hot’ in Punjabi.  I _told_ you I’d remember!”

Matt smirks. “Did you just _Google_ that?”

Foggy scoffs. “ _Shit_ , man. What’s the use of having a blind roommate if he knows everything you do?”

The water seems to be sobering Matt up a little, because he is more easily able to refrain from telling Foggy that he heard his fingers typing into his phone from across the room. Instead he just laughs quietly as Foggy picks up the remote and turns on the TV.

Foggy has a habit of doing this: using meaningless sound--such as music or early morning infomercials--to diffuse silence. Matt had to get used to this when he first met Foggy. The constant noise tended to muffle the softer sounds he used to navigate spaces, distance, and emotions. But he adapted, and now the sounds Foggy carries with him virtually everywhere he goes are comforting to Matt, nearly as familiar as his own heartbeat. When Matt is alone in their apartment, he often finds himself playing music or switching on the TV when the comparative silence around him seems too loud.

Tonight, as always, Matt is grateful for the noise. He and Foggy sit in comfortable quiet, both of them half asleep by the time the infomercial switches from jewelry to the _Magic Bullet_ at 4:00.

Foggy yawns and stands. “Right, I’m going to bed,” he says as he makes his way unsteadily behind the couch, his voice slurring more with exhaustion now than liquor. “You owe me, by the way,” he continues, placing a hand on Matt’s shoulder as he passes him. “For dragging your sorry ass out tonight.”

Matt starts to laugh, but the sound dies in his throat, barely escaping his lips. Foggy’s right: Matt _does_ owe him for giving him even a few hours of peace tonight. And, whether because of the alcohol or the immense relief he feels at being able to _breathe_ on a night that has suffocated him for years, Matt decides that Foggy deserves to know this too.

“Foggy,” he calls, stopping him from walking out of the living room. He hears Foggy turn to face the back of the couch. “There’s… there’s something I need to tell you--about tonight, I mean.”

Matt pauses, sucking all of his courage into one, deep, shuddering breath. “My dad--”

“I know, Matt.”

Matt snaps his head up, but doesn’t turn to face Foggy. Instead, he just listens to his friend’s now-racing heart, and wonders how long it’s been beating so quickly.

“How?” Matt chokes out, the growing pressure in his throat causing the word to bend and constrict into a whisper.

Foggy shifts, the wood floors beneath his feet creaking in response. His heart is beating even faster now. But when he speaks, his voice is proud--almost boastful, even--and carries a hint of disbelief, as though Matt should already know the answer to the question he’s asked. “Hell’s Kitchen, man. Every kid on my block can still tell you exactly where he was the night Battlin’ Jack won his last fight.”

Matt exhales slowly as Foggy’s words swirl in his mind. _He knew_ \-- _this whole time, he knew_. And yet somehow, Matt understands that in Foggy’s mind, tonight wasn’t about pity. Tonight was about _celebrating_ , not--as Foggy had led Matt to believe--impending graduation. But celebrating someone whose life had _meant_ something, not just to Matt, but to an entire generation of underdogs who wanted to believe in something _more_. Something more than the dirt and corruption and crime and loss into which they were born. Something more than the poverty and pain that they were told--from a young age--was to be their inheritance.

He closes his eyes--a leftover habit from when he could see--and lets the noise from the TV fill the silence in the room. And for the first time, he allows himself to remember _beyond_ that night thirteen years ago. He allows himself to remember all the people who had come up to him at his father’s funeral and told him how much they admired him. He allows himself to remember how the newspapers named that fight the Fight of the Century, and called his father a hero. He allows himself to remember how people who met his father still tell Matt how much he looks like him, and mean it, wholeheartedly, as a compliment.

And it’s only now that Matt realizes what’s so different about this night. He carried his father’s ghost with him everywhere tonight, just as he’s done for thirteen years. But for the first time, the burden didn’t weigh him down. Instead, he’d learned that there are many ways to grieve. Over the years, he’d tried many of them: penance, mourning, vengeance. But he’d never thought to try _honoring_. He’d never thought to try _accepting_ and _letting go_.

So tonight, with Foggy and the television as the only witnesses, Matt bows his head and says goodbye to his father’s ghost. He shudders slightly as it leaves him; but the space inside him is quickly filled with memories that he hasn’t been able to think about in years: his father teaching him how to throw a punch, the two of them wrestling in the grass together when Matt finally punched so hard it knocked him over, his father’s smile when Matt made his first Honor Roll (and his second, and his third), Matt waking up in the hospital, blind and terrified with the immutable loudness of the world, his father’s voice the one sure thing Matt could latch onto to find comfort in the dark.

Foggy shifts again, drawing Matt back into the present. “Um… are you… okay?” He asks, his voice punctuated with concern.

Matt opens his eyes and smiles. “Yeah, man. I’m good,” he says, turning on the couch to face his friend. Foggy studies Matt for a moment, and Matt can almost _see_ Foggy squinting at him, trying to read his expression through Matt’s tinted glasses. Before Foggy can reach any conclusions, Matt adds, “And thank you--for tonight.”

Foggy snorts. “‘Course, man. There’s no one else I’d rather share a bottle of scotch--or a hangover--with.”

Matt smirks. “Me neither.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene in between 1X09 and 1X10.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Daredevil or any of the characters in this story. Everything belongs to Marvel; I just bring these guys into my headspace every once in a while.

“ _Jesus, Matt._ ”

The sound of Foggy’s voice jars Matt back into a world he wants no part of. Never in his life has he felt so much pain. It’s _everywhere_ \--in his limbs, in his back, in his lungs--swallowing all of the world’s nuance that usually allows him to _see_. All he can hear is ringing, all he can taste is blood, all he can smell is the bruising of his own flesh, and all he can feel is--

He screams. The pain intensifies. He screams again and tries to get up, as though somehow he can run from his shredded skin and muscles and bones.

A firm hand pushes him back down onto the floor. “Don’t move, buddy.”

Matt groans as the world spins around him and his eyes roll back into his head. And then the world goes silent.

 

******

Matt awakes again when a needle is shoved into his arm. The cool liquid makes him shiver as it runs through his veins. It’s not long before he can taste the medicine in his mouth. He’s tasted it before. It’s Tica… Ticarill…

Matt shakes his head. Someone told him the name once before, but he doesn’t remember now. He thinks it might be something to keep his wounds from getting infected.

_His wounds_. He groans as the pain hits him again, and tries to roll onto his side. Two pairs of hands fight to keep him down, now, one slightly stronger than the other.

“Shit, he’s awake.”

Matt doesn’t recognize the voice. It’s female, and he thinks he _should_ recognize it, but nothing is familiar; his brain isn’t working right. His senses still can’t work above the sound and taste and feel of his own pain.

He’s scared. He doesn’t know where he is or how he got here. He doesn’t know why it hurts so much. He doesn’t know why it won’t stop.

The second person in the room moves closer to Matt’s head. “What do we do?”

_Foggy._

_Foggy’s here._

Of _course_ Foggy’s here. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Gloved hands use scissors to cut away at the clothing on his chest. The female voice speaks again in strained, hushed tones. “Talk to him. Try to keep him from screaming again.”

Matt uses all the strength he has to listen for Foggy’s voice. _Yes,_ Matt begs silently, _please talk to me. I need to know I’m not alone. You can talk about anything you want--just don’t stop. Don’t leave me alone here._

It takes Foggy so long to respond that Matt is nearly unconscious again before he speaks.

“I…” His voice trembles with sadness and defeat.  “I don’t know what to say.”

 

******

Matt’s senses are working somewhat better when he wakes next. He can smell gauze and antiseptic and latex, but also familiar smells like leather and pine and silk. He can hear the steady buzzing of millions of tiny LED lights through the glass behind him, and so he knows that he is at home, in his own apartment, on his own couch, though he has no idea how he got here.

Instead of focusing on what he _doesn’t_ know, he focuses his mind inward toward his own body. Each individual cut and bruise is distinguishable from the next now: the dual slashes in his chest, the deeper cut in his arm, the two-- _three_ \--broken fingers on his right hand, and the deep, angry gash in his side. He can feel everything, but it’s all muted, sluggish. Slowly he realizes that someone must have given him painkillers.

As his pain levels are no longer a reliable measure of the damage to his body, Matt tries to move his hands to assess his wounds. It’s no use. His reluctant limbs beg to remain still, and he doesn’t fight it. For now, it’s enough to know that his heart is beating and that his lungs are working. He’ll sort out the rest when the painkillers wear off.

He’s about to allow himself to fade back into unconsciousness again when he hears footsteps in his room. Briefly, he wonders if he’s dreaming, because he always, _always_ knows when he’s not alone. But as he concentrates harder through the haze of painkillers, he understands that he’s awake, and he’s definitely not alone. The steps are heavy and the gait is slightly uneven, the toes of the left foot scuffing the ground with every step. Matt recognizes it immediately. _Foggy is here_.

No, that’s not quite right. _Foggy is_ still _here._ Matt remembers now that Foggy was here before--he’s been here the whole time. And _he knows now._

He knows.

Foggy has never been able to sit still. It’s one of the things that makes his friendship so easy, especially for Matt. When people are still, Matt has a harder time reading them. If their heartbeat speeds up, it could be because of pleasure or pain; if they’re silent, it could be because they’re angry or thinking. Stick proved this lesson to him during their first encounter over ice cream, where Matt couldn’t tell the difference between illness and love. Now Matt can read and combine cues better so that he can almost always figure out how someone is feeling without being told.

But Foggy needs to _move_ , and that makes things easier for Matt. When he’s happy, he is all pats on the back and bear hugs; when he’s content, he taps his pen against his desk; when he’s angry, he digs his hands into his pockets like he’s trying not to hit someone (though when he’s angry at Matt, he usually folds his arms across his chest, because Matt occasionally deserves a whack on the back of the head or two); and when he’s upset, he paces.

Matt tries to call out to him, but the pain doesn’t allow him to move. So he lies there, half conscious, listening to Foggy’s pacing, so badly wanting to assure him that everything will be okay.

But even as he thinks it, he knows it’s not true. Nothing is okay anymore. Matt’s heard Foggy talk about the Man in the Mask enough to know how he feels about him. To Foggy, he’s a vigilante who thinks he’s above the law. And sure, he may have some morals (he saved Karen’s life, after all), but the law is there for a reason, and anyone who operates outside of it is a petty criminal at best, and a mur--

_No. No. Foggy can’t think that about him. He can’t really think that Matt would go that far._

A pain that has nothing to do with Matt’s wounds burns in his chest as he realizes that that might be _exactly_ how Foggy sees him. For weeks, all anyone has been talking about is the man who burned down buildings, who killed policemen, who murdered innocent men. That’s the only side that Foggy knows.

Because Matt’s never told him the truth.

He’d come close a few times. The closest was the first night he actually hurt someone--when he beat up that girl’s father. He’d come home bloodied and bruised, but also _exhilarated_ that he’d actually managed to put an end to a girl’s nightmare. But when Foggy asked him about the marks on his knuckles the next day, as he was sketching the sign for the law offices that they were going to start together on a napkin, Matt suddenly realized how culpable Foggy would be if he knew what Matt was doing, and how much danger he’d be in if someone figured out the connection between them. So he’d told Foggy that he fell taking out the trash and let his friend have a laugh at his expense.

But Foggy finding out has always been inevitable, as much as Matt may have tried to convince himself otherwise. And now he’s found out like this.

The pain in Matt’s chest spreads to his stomach and his throat, shredding its way through the bandages and the painkillers as he realizes that _this might be it._ Everyone Matt has ever cared for, everyone he’s ever loved, has left him, and this might finally be Foggy’s breaking point as well. Matt’s lied to him; he’s done things--some of them horrible--in the name of a cause Foggy doesn’t believe in. He’s put Foggy’s life in danger without his knowledge or consent, and he nearly had the audacity to die on him without ever explaining _why_.

Matt’s body writhes, an involuntary response against the pain that now pumps through his heart like fire. He doesn’t know if he can bear another loss. After all they’ve been through together, he doesn’t know if he can lose Foggy, too.

At some point he becomes vaguely aware that the pacing has stopped, and in what feels like the next instant, he feels Foggy’s fingers pulling away at the gauze on his side. His hands are trembling, his breathing is shallow and tense, and when the gauze finally comes free, Matt can feel the heat radiating off of his friends face, and smell the salt of tears that have become trapped in his eyelashes.

The pain claws at Matt’s eyes now, spilling out from under his lids in hot trails. It’s too much. Ignoring every protest from his battered, sluggish body, Matt summons all the strength he has left to reach out and grab Foggy’s arm. Foggy freezes, clutching the antiseptic wipe he’d been using to clean Matt’s wound.

Matt says the only thing he can think of, the only thing that will fit into a single one of his labored breaths. “I'm sorry.”

Foggy jerks his arm free, and Matt hears him wipe his eyes on his shoulder. “For which part, exactly?” he sneers, continuing to dab--carefully--at Matt’s stomach with the wipe, despite his tone.

_For this,_ Matt tries to say. _For what you saw, for what you know. For how you found out. For everything._

But he’s wasted all his breath and nearly all his consciousness, so he closes his eyes and prays that someday, Foggy might be able to understand.

“Yeah,” Foggy says, his tone gentler, though not forgiving, “how about you try apologizing when you actually have some idea what you’re saying.”

He places new gauze on Matt’s side and begins taping over the edges. Matt is almost out again when he hears--he _thinks_ he hears--Foggy sigh, “You can try again tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere.”

Matt really hopes he isn’t dreaming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Daredevil or any of the characters in this story. Everything belongs to Marvel; I just bring these guys into my headspace every once in a while.

Matt doesn’t bother looking up when Foggy enters the gym. Instead, he ignores the momentary interruption and refocuses on the steady rhythm of his fists connecting with the heavy bag. He’d been expecting Foggy to come. The last time Matt was at Foggy’s apartment, he’d heard a police scanner in his bedroom. Neither of them had acknowledged it at the time, but Matt knew that Foggy wouldn’t have kept it on if he didn’t want Matt to know he had it. He was telling Matt he had his back, like always. At the time, Matt thought it was harmless at worst, and maybe even kind of touching.

Now he’s not so sure. He desperately wants to be alone. But after all that has happened--after all Foggy has grown to _accept_ , if not fully understand--Matt can’t bring himself to tell his friend to leave. A part of him is still worried that if he pushes Foggy away again, even if it’s for his own good, he might never come back.

So tonight Matt settles for not speaking. If Foggy wants to be here, that’s fine, but Matt isn’t ready for anyone to try and convince him that everything is okay.

He vaguely registers the rustling of canvas against polyester as Foggy removes his messenger bag and sets it on the floor. He remains silent, and Matt can’t tell from the beating of his heart if it’s because he doesn’t know what to say, or because he knows enough not to say anything at all. Matt guesses it’s the latter. He’s learned a lot about his friend in the past few months; or rather, he has grown to appreciate more the qualities he’s taken for granted since the beginning of their friendship: humor and passionate adherence to the law, yes; but also loyalty, patience, and an almost unnatural ability to read people. Matt has to rely on heartbeats and breaths and best guesses to understand what other people are thinking, what other people _need_. But somehow, Foggy just seems to know.

Case and point: the fact that it took less than twenty minutes from when the police showed up and Matt left the scene for Foggy to find Matt _here_.

Usually, on nights when he’s been out, Matt ends up at the Church. If Father Lantom is awake, he’ll listen to his story and give him absolution. He’s creative with his penance, which is one of the reasons Matt likes him. Once he told Matt he had to defend the (innocent) relative of a man Matt had put behind bars _pro bono_. Another time, he’d had Matt volunteer in a homeless shelter after several poor families--who had been living in a building illegally--lost their homes as a result of a criminal businessman being sent to jail (thanks to Matt) and all of his assets being seized. Sometimes, though, if he’s tired, Father Lantom just tells Matt to say the rosary and sends him on his way.   

Foggy has known all this since the night he burst through the church doors at 4:00 one morning, frantically searching for Matt after he’d been unable to reach him on his phone. ( _Where exactly do you think I’d keep a phone in this suit?_ Matt had asked, trying to lighten the mood. Foggy--half awake and trembling with fear and worry and exhaustion--had been decidedly unimpressed.)

Yet tonight, despite the knowledge that had been seared into his brain in that moment of panic, Foggy had known that Matt would be _here_. Even as a non-Catholic, Foggy had guessed that sometimes there aren’t enough _Aves_ or _Our Fathers_ to absolve every sin.

Matt shuffles his feet as his knuckles connect with the bag in front of him, trying to find a spot that isn’t already slippery with sweat (and in places, blood). He almost wishes he’d bothered to wrap his hands, but then his fists connect evenly with a dry patch of leather sending pain shooting through his hand and arm, and he remembers why he didn’t. The chain holding the bag to the ceiling laughs at him in short, chinking giggles. He grits his teeth and hits the bag again. Harder.

Foggy stands by the ring behind Matt, watching him silently, his rapid heartbeat the only indication of his concern. Matt tries to tune it out, but the more he tries, the louder and more insistent it becomes. Finally, he hears Foggy unbutton the cuffs of his shirt and roll his sleeves up to his elbows. Still without speaking, Foggy moves forward and circles around Matt until the heavy bag stands between them. When Matt hits the bag again, it doesn’t swing; the laughing chain is muffled. Matt throws another cross, harder this time, and still the bag doesn’t move. He hears Foggy adjust his footing on the other side of the bag, preparing for the next blow. Matt strikes at it again.

And again.

It’s harder this way, and Foggy must know that. But the blood pounding through Matt’s heart and seeping out through cracked knuckles and ringing loudly in his ears blocks out almost everything else, and he doesn’t have to think anymore. He strikes again and again and again, throwing his full weight into every blow.

“It’s not your fault,” Foggy offers eventually, tentatively.

Matt uses his shoulder to shove the bag into Foggy’s chest in warning. Aside from the clacking of Foggy’s teeth when the bag hits him, he goes silent. But his words have already done their damage. Matt’s concentration is broken, and no matter how hard he strikes at the bag, or how hard he listens to each individual grain of sand shifting beneath the force of his blows, it’s not enough to silence the sound of her screams.

And then, the smell of decades’ worth of sparring can no longer block out the way the man smelled when Matt found him crouched over the girl, admiring his work. In the salt of his own sweat on his lips he tastes the girl’s tears, stained into her eyelashes and cheeks and mouth before she was able to wipe them away. In the sound of his own bones grinding in his hands, he hears the sound of the girl’s ribs cracking as he desperately tried to bring her back to life.

As the memories from the night command his senses, Matt’s punches slow. With the strength he has left, he slams his fists against the bag and screams in a hoarse, hollow roar.

Foggy holds the bag steady as Matt leans his forehead against the leather. “It’s not your fault,” he repeats, louder this time.

Matt winces. When he speaks, his voice is gravel grating against his throat. “I should have saved her.”

He hears Foggy shake his head. “You _couldn’t_ have saved her, Matt. No one could have.”

“You don’t _know_ that,” Matt growls through gritted teeth. “If I’d gotten there sooner, or if I’d gone down the alley from the other side…”

In his heart, Matt knows it wouldn’t have made a difference. The man had already made up his mind about how the night was going to end. This was the fourth girl to be taken in nearly as many months. Each of them had disappeared the same way: heading home, alone, in the early morning hours. No one heard from them again until their bodies turned up in dumpsters or in shipping crates on the docks.

But when Matt heard the scream tonight, he _knew_ that he could end it. The asshole had messed up royally--attacking someone within Matt’s hearing. He was six blocks away and Matt could be there in less than three minutes. In the tried and true tradition of every masked vigilante ever to grace the pages of comic books, he’d show up, save the girl, and give the City one less lowlife to worry about.

Except that such endings require heroes, and no hero bothered to show up tonight.

Matt has held death in his hands more times than he cares to count, but he’s only witnessed the act of dying once, with Nobu. Then, the man had died slowly--agonizingly so--and systematically: his breathing had stopped, then his limbs ceased their flailing, then his heart stuttered one last time, and then--somewhere beyond the reach of even Matt’s senses--his brain had gone silent. The whole thing took four, maybe five minutes, but it seemed like an eternity.

But tonight it happened _so fast_. When he was five blocks away he heard the girl’s screams garble as the man grabbed her throat. At three blocks, he heard vertebrae grinding together, snapping in a quick succession of dry, hollow pops. At two blocks, he heard the girl’s body slumping to the ground. And by the time he rounded the corner to the alley, there was only one heart beating in the darkness besides his own.

Seconds. It took _seconds_ for her life to end. Her last breath held within it the memory of countless birthday parties and first dates and graduations and broken hearts and _mended_ hearts and friendships and sorrow and love; her last heartbeat as immense and as insignificant as her first. In the single moment it took Matt to cross 44nd street, a great, gaping hole was bored into the fabric of hundreds of wounded worlds.

Foggy’s right--Matt _couldn’t_ have made it there in time. Not tonight. By the time the man took her, it was already too late. _But I should have been listening harder_ , Matt tells himself, sliding to his knees and then sitting down with his back against the bag. _I should have heard his heart beating in anticipation; I should have noticed the woman walking alone and tracked her more carefully; I should have found him before tonight, before he had a chance to do this again..._

“I should have saved her,” he says again, dropping his chin to his chest.

Foggy sinks slowly down as well, leaning against the other side of the bag so that it remains motionless between them. “They caught him, right?”

Matt grunts in the affirmative. His fists twitch as they remember the crunching impact they made with the man’s skull. He would survive. But only barely.

Foggy nods, but is silent. The traffic outside whirs past. Matt tries to concentrate on it, but it’s not nearly loud or insistent enough to do any good. He still feels the smoothness of the girl’s leather jacket against the palms of his hands; the scent of her lavender shampoo still curls around his wrists; and behind his own sightless eyelids, he sees the last thing the girl must have seen: darkness, unending.

Foggy clears his throat, and Matt lifts up his head, reflexively. “You couldn’t save her,” he repeats, his voice strong and clear despite his elevated heartbeat. “But you saved the next girl.”

Matt closes his eyes and lets his friend’s words hang in the heavy air. Foggy sighs.

“If you’re going to do this, that has to be enough, Matt. That _has_ to be enough for…”

Foggy trails off without finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need to. Matt finishes it for him in his mind in dozens of ways. _For me to be okay with this. For you to protect the people you care about. For you to survive._

Matt leans his head back against the bag. The weight of the girl’s body still fills the air within his arms. But if he’s being honest--if he lets truth rise above the guilt--he knows that the weight he carries could be much, much heavier. That knowledge will never be enough for him to stop fighting; as long as he can, he will always try to protect the people and the City that need it most. But tonight, it’s enough to help him commit this girl to the mausoleum of people he was supposed to protect but didn’t-- _couldn’t_ \--and pray that the company she finds there will forgive him, even as he adds to their number.

“I know,” Matt sighs, closing his eyes. “It is. It is enough.”

He hears Foggy reach for his messenger bag. He rummages through it for a moment, and then pulls out a glass bottle. He reaches around their shared backrest and taps it on Matt’s arm. “For the pain.”

Matt unscrews the cap slowly, his knuckles aching with every twist. He drinks without bothering to smell it first, taking three long pulls before he even registers the taste of the liquor. It won’t solve anything. He will still have been too late when the hangover wears off in the morning. He’ll still have to spend the next weeks-- _months--_ hearing the details of her death repeated again and again by the media. But the liquid fire burning in his throat and empty stomach, and the weight of his friend propping him up may just get him through tonight. And right now, that’s the most he can ask for.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” he offers as he passes the bottle back to Foggy. It’s more a courtesy than anything else. He knows Foggy is still not 100% on board with what Matt does--hell, he still can’t even call Matt’s alter-ego by the name the media gave him. And Matt knows his friend doesn’t need or _deserve_ to share his guilt or pain. All the same, he doesn’t want to be alone with his ghosts anymore.

Foggy drinks from the bottle the same way Matt had, too quickly to even taste the scotch. “I know,” he says, exhaling slowly.

For a moment, Matt is afraid he’ll leave. He opens his mouth, ready to take back the words and beg his friend to stay. But then he hears Foggy take another drink and settle in against the bag in way that Matt can tell means he’s going nowhere.

 _It’s enough_ , Matt repeats as he takes the bottle back from Foggy and raises it to his lips. _For tonight, it’s enough_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes us right up to the beginning of S2. This chapter constitutes the 5th "save," as well as a subtle +1 at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Daredevil or any of the characters in this story. Everything belongs to Marvel; I just bring these guys into my headspace every once in a while.

“So, whaddya think. Should I ask for her number?”

Matt lifts his head quickly, the question taking him by surprise. He quickly tries to piece together some sort of cohesive context for Foggy’s question based on the few words he remembers from the past three minutes: Barista. Cute smile. Writes “Franklin” instead of “Foggy” on his cup. Smells like cardamom and poppy seeds and--

_You’re projecting, Murdock._

“Yes,” Matt says, taking a sip of his beer. He can tell from Foggy’s silence that he’s taken too long to answer. Quickly, he nods again and adds, “Definitely.”

Foggy snorts and takes a drink. “Good save,” he mutters sarcastically.

Matt sighs. This is the first time he’s been out with Foggy in weeks. He’d promised his friend that, for just one night, he’d be Matt Murdock and no one else. And dammit, he’s been _trying_. But the jerk to his left--the one who smells like Newports and faux leather and some sort of horrible cologne--has not been making it easy.

The guy’s been talking to--or, rather, _at_ \--a Josie’s regular for the last ten minutes. Matt doesn’t know her name, but he’s heard her voice more than a few times, and he has a oddly distinct memory of her rushing in front of him to hold the door open once when his hands were full with his cane, an umbrella, and legal papers from whatever case he and Foggy had been working on at the time. In a city like this, kindness to strangers tends to stand out.

Matt grimaces as he realizes that her proclivity for kindness is probably what got her stuck talking to this man in the first place, and is almost certainly what’s keeping her from telling him to shove off every time he makes a lewd comment about her dress or her legs or her chest. From her nervous laughter and her rapid heartbeat, Matt can tell that she’s not enjoying his company. But despite this knowledge, hitting on someone is not a crime, so there’s nothing Matt can do. Besides--he’s just _Matt Murdock_ tonight, and Matt Murdock, unlike his decidedly meddlesome alter-ego, doesn’t get involved in other people’s problems.

Matt shakes his head and offers Foggy a contrite smile. “I’m sorry. I’m listening, I promise.”

Foggy sets his beer on the bar. “No way, dude. You can at least let me in on whatever action I’m missing.”

“It’s nothing,” Matt says. But Foggy goes silent again, and Matt knows that he’s not going to let this go. He exhales and leans in to speak more softly. “Fine. D’you see the guy sitting next to me?”

Foggy raises his head, and Matt rolls his eyes. If Foggy’s going to be privy to Matt’s secrets, he’s going to have to teach him a little subtlety.

“Who, Drakkar?” Foggy asks. Matt raises his eyebrow. Foggy snorts. “Dude, you don’t have to have superpowers or whatever to smell that guy from across the room. He smells _exactly_ like my high school gym during prom.”

Matt grunts. “They’re not _superpowers_ ,” he protests, shaking his head. Foggy snorts again. “Whatever. To the point: _Drakkar_ \--you seen him in here before?”

“No,” Foggy says. “Why? What’s up?”

Matt listens to the conversation going on next to him. Nothing has changed. The man is still taking every opportunity to try and--metaphorically at least--insert himself into her pants; the woman is still responding halfheartedly, but making no other effort to leave the conversation. No one is doing anything strictly _wrong_. Even a masked vigilante would have to let this one pass.

“It’s nothing,” Matt sighs. “Really.”

He can almost feel Foggy weighing his words, wondering if he can--or _should_ \--believe them. Finally, Foggy sets his empty bottle on the bar and stands up. “Good. Because I’m going to take a piss, and when I get back, I expect to have a fresh beer and your full attention.” Foggy grabs Matt’s shoulders and squeezes. “I have _needs_ , Murdock. Base, primal needs that can only be met in the arms of a beautiful woman--preferably one who comes with the promise of free caffeine and pastries. And with your help, my friend, I think we just might be able to make it happen.”

“All right, all right,” Matt laughs, batting Foggy’s arms away. “Understood.”

Foggy punches Matt’s shoulder lightly and then turns and heads for the bathroom. As he walks away, Matt raises his hand to signal Josie for a second round. He waits until her hears her _I got you, Murdock_ from across the bar to put his arm down; less than two minutes later, he hears the heavy thud of two cheap beers being set on the bar in front of him. He thanks Josie and takes a drink. And then, slowly, he shuts down.

That’s as good a term for it as anything: shutting down. Matt doesn’t do it often, one because it takes a fair amount of energy, and two because it makes him incredibly vulnerable. But just like he can ramp his senses up to hear a heartbeat three blocks away or smell Karen carrying coffee up the stairs in the morning, he can also force himself to concentrate on turning these senses off, or shutting them down. It’s different from the meditation he does to heal himself after injury--there’s no energizing or rejuvenating element to it. It’s just being quiet, being still.

… And in tonight’s case, it’s also staying out of trouble. The best chance he has for not confronting the guy sitting next to him-- _Drakkar_ \--is if he doesn’t have to listen to all of the ridiculously offensive things coming out of his mouth. And the only way he can do that is if he can’t hear. At all. When Foggy comes back, he’ll suggest that they move further away. Preferably to another bar entirely.

Except that before Matt senses Foggy’s return, he feels a sharp elbow in his side, breaking his concentration. Instantly he hears all of the sounds of the bar at once--the water dripping into the drain beneath the sink, someone rubbing the tip of a cue against chalk, the empty soap dispenser whirring uselessly in the bathroom. And above it all, the sound of a woman’s voice.

“ _Hey, let me go_.”

Drakkar laughs and elbows Matt in the side again as he pulls the woman back to him. She stumbles forward, and Matt feels the man shift so that she’s pulled between his legs.

Matt grits his teeth. _I’m Matt Murdock tonight, I’m Matt Murdock tonight, I’m Matt Murdock tonight_ he chants to himself, even as his fingers clench around the drink in his hand.

“C’mon, sweetheart. We’re having fun, aren’t we?”

The woman twists in his arms, but the man tightens his grip and laughs lazily, almost as though he’s enjoying the struggle.

“Please, just let me go,” she begs, the panic rising in her voice.

Matt growls. _Screw Matt Murdock._

He swivels in his seat and grabs the man’s arm. “Hey, man. Why don’t you leave her alone?”

Surprised by Matt’s interference, the man temporarily relaxes his grip on the woman’s waist. Seizing her opportunity, the woman staggers out from between his legs and weaves her way toward the bar’s exit. Matt exhales in relief as he hears the door shut behind her.

Drakkar makes no effort to follow her. Instead, he turns his attention to Matt. “What the _fuck_?” he snarls, ripping his arm free of Matt’s grasp.

Matt weighs his options. He can’t fight this man--not here, at least. So he can either diffuse the situation, or he can prepare himself to take a beating. Not liking the second option much, Matt leans back in his chair and slowly, deliberately raises his hands to the sides of his face, palms out, drawing as much attention as possible to his eyes.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Matt says. For added emphasis, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Drakkar’s heart is beating quickly, angrily. Still, he hesitates as he studies Matt’s face. After a minute, Matt lifts the corner of his mouth into what he hopes is an innocent-looking smile.

It’s the wrong move.

Drakkar stands and slams his half-full beer down on the bar. “If you didn’t want trouble, then you shoulda kept your hands to your damn self,” he says. “Get up.”

Slowly, Matt complies, but is careful to fumble with his cane in the process. Again, Drakkar hesitates. As pissed as he is, Matt can tell he’s not quite sure about the morality of hitting a blind guy.

Matt slouches to make himself look as small as possible. This seems to work. Drakkar’s heartbeat slows, and Matt’s nearly certain that if he can just keep the victim act up a little longer, he’ll be in the clear.

Except that Matt’s forgotten one critical piece of this delicately-feigned balancing act.

“Leave him alone, asshole.”

 _Foggy_.

Matt groans as Foggy steps in front of him. Matt had been concentrating so hard on staying calm that he’d neglected to listen for Foggy’s return from the bathroom. And now Foggy is in _exactly_ the wrong place at the wrong time--between Matt and the man who would already have broken Matt’s jaw if it weren’t for Matt’s “disability.”

“Don’t do this, Foggy,” Matt whispers, grabbing at his friend’s arm. In the same instant, Drakkar’s heart begins racing again and he takes a step forward.

“Who the hell are you?”

Foggy shakes his arm free and straightens up to his full height. “Never mind who I am. What matters is who _you_ are.”

Matt can tell from Foggy’s voice that he’s pissed--whether at Drakkar or at Matt, he’s not so sure. Either way, Matt tries again to pull Foggy out of the line of fire, but again, his friend just shakes himself free.

Drakkar laughs lazily again. “Oh yeah, and why’s that?”

Matt winces. The man’s heartbeat is beating faster now, and the steely, arrogant edge has returned to his voice.

Seemingly oblivious to the danger he’s in, Foggy clears his throat and sticks his hands in his pockets. It’s a tell Matt knows well from the courtroom--it’s what Foggy does right before he presents evidence that he’s certain will win the case for him. When he speaks, his voice is clear, measured, almost mocking.

“Because _you’re_ the asshole who’s about to hit a _blind lawyer_ in a bar full of witnesses. You know what the punishment for assault in the second degree is, dude? Two years, minimum. But you know what? Why don’t you go ahead and give it a shot. I’m feelin’ pretty hot tonight--I bet we can convince a judge that you deserve the full seven. So whaddya think--you still liking your chances?”

The bar is growing quieter by the minute as more and more patrons pick up on the escalating tension. Above the ebbing noise, Matt hears Drakkar pick his beer up and swirl its contents. After a moment, he drains the bottle and then slams it back down. _Please just leave, please just leave_ Matt thinks to himself, despite the mounting evidence that this is _not_ how the night is going to end.

“You know what?” Drakkar sneers. “You’re right.”

 _Shit_.

He lands the punch before either Matt or Foggy has time to react. Matt’s senses scream as he hears the man’s knuckles connect with Foggy’s cheek and smells the blood pooling in Foggy’s mouth from biting his tongue. Foggy stumbles backward around Matt with the force of the contact; in the same instant, Drakkar advances, readying his fist for another blow. But Matt is prepared to buy his friend some time. Affecting clumsiness, Matt kicks the stool he’d been sitting on into the attacker’s path. It works better than he’d hoped: he’d meant to simply slow him down, but the man is tipsy enough that he trips and loses his balance on the chair’s legs, sending them both crashing to the ground.

Matt takes advantage of the moment to turn to Foggy. “Get out of here,” he hisses.

“Like hell,” Foggy spits back as he attempts to weave unsteadily toward the man on the floor.

Matt hadn’t been expecting this. He’s never seen Foggy in a fight before; frankly, he didn’t know the guy had it in him. But from the way Foggy is attempting to shoulder his way around Matt, he knows that his friend’s not going to let this one go.

Matt wracks his brain trying to figure out how he can stop this fight without doing something he shouldn’t be able to do. But before he can come up with an answer--and, fortunately, before either Foggy or Drakkar reach each other--a familiar figure rushes around the bar and plants itself firmly in Drakkar’s path.

“Walk away, prick.”

To punctuate her point, Josie shoves something hard against the man’s chest. Matt’s smelled the object many times before--years of stale beer and cigarettes caked on top of polyurethane and maplewood. In the same instant that Josie speaks, Foggy stops trying to push his way forward. In all the years they’ve been coming here, neither of them has ever been on the receiving end of Josie’s baseball bat. It doesn’t seem like Foggy is particularly anxious to break that streak tonight.

Drakkar, however, doesn’t seem to understand how seriously Josie takes her “no bar fights” policy. He grunts and swats the bat away before trying to muscle his way past her. But Josie has dealt with this particular brand of asshole many, many times before. She sidesteps to her right and shoves her bat in his sternum, harder this time.

“Look,” she says, her voice carrying loudly over the sudden stillness of the bar. “You’ve got two options here. One, you leave now. Two, you try to get past me again and you get a mouth full of broken teeth. Your choice.”

Drakkar considers this for a minute, and Matt can smell his sweat and feel his heartbeat escalating as he weighs Josie’s words. Finally, he takes a step backward and kicks his stool against the bar.

“Fuck you all,” he mutters. He kicks his stool again and then turns and makes his way to the exit, being sure to ram his shoulder into anyone who happens to be in his way.

Matt tracks his footsteps until he’s two blocks away. Once he’s convinced he’s not coming back, he turns to Foggy, who, incredibly, is laughing quietly to himself.

Matt exhales in a mixture of both frustration and relief. “What the hell is so funny?”

Foggy leans back against the bar. “It’s nothing,” he says through his laughter. “I was just thinking… this is pretty much how prom ended for me, too.”

 

*******

“That was… dumb,” Foggy says as he takes a towel from Matt’s hands. Matt had only been able to bargain for the towel--and the ice within it--once he and Foggy had cleaned up the mess they’d helped create and tipped Josie--generously--for her trouble. Even now, though, Matt can feel Josie eyeing them angrily from behind the bar. Despite their patronage over the last several years, Matt’s not sure they’d still be welcome here if Foggy had actually managed to throw a punch.

Matt takes a seat and leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Ya think?”

“Yeah well, you should see the other guy,” Foggy quips, audibly wincing as he places the ice on his cheek. Matt scowls and lowers his chin to his chest. He’s not in the mood for humor at the moment; not when he’s still wracking his brain trying to figure out how he would have stopped his friend from getting pummeled if Josie hadn’t intervened. Maybe he could disappear for a few weeks and then reemerge and tell everyone that he’d had an operation and that now he’s only _partially_ blind. At least then he’d be able to defend his friends when he’s Matt Murdock, and not just when he’s--

“No, _no_.” Foggy groans. “Stop that. Now.”

Matt sighs. “Stop what?”

Matt feels the air around his face swirl as Foggy waves his hand in front of it. “ _That_ , man. You’re… you’re _brooding._ ”

Matt shakes his head in frustration. “Well _someone_ should be worrying about what could’ve happened back there, Foggy. What the hell were you thinking, anyway? I had it under control. The guy wasn’t even going to _hit_ me. He was going to walk away.”

“Yeah? and how the hell was I supposed to know that, huh? I came out of the bathroom to see you squaring off with some jackass twice your size who looked like he’d been itching for a fight since the day he was born. What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and _watch_?”

“You could try _trusting_ me, maybe,” Matt hisses.

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say the moment the words leave his mouth. Foggy knows it, too: he snorts and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

Matt sighs. The trust that he had earned through years of being the rational, reliable, uptight-but-good-natured best friend had all crumbled months ago during the sleepless night Foggy spent covered in Matt’s blood. It’s a long, steep hill back from that, and Matt is starting at the very bottom.

Which is all to say that appealing to his own trustworthiness is not the best way for Matt to win an argument with Foggy tonight.

Matt puts his elbows on the bar and cradles his head in his hands. “Look, I’m sorry,” he offers. “It’s just… you’re not supposed to get hurt.”

Foggy huffs. “What, like, ever?”

 _Yes, ever_ , Matt thinks, his inner voice pleading, urgent. _Haven’t you been_ listening _? Don’t you understand that that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along?_

Foggy sighs and reaches forward to grab his beer. He takes a long drink. Then another. Matt can tell he’s trying to hide the hitch in his breath that signals he’s about to speak.

Finally, Foggy removes the towel from his cheek, and places it on the bar. “Did I ever tell you I tried it once?” he asks, his voice slow, reluctant.

Matt rubs his forehead against his hands. “What? Trusting me?”

He hadn’t meant for it to be a joke, but Foggy laughs, nonetheless, cutting through some of the tension. When Foggy speaks again, his voice is somewhat clearer. “No. Being blind.”

Matt jerks his head up, completely unprepared for that response. “You _what_?”

Foggy laughs again and takes another drink. “Yeah, back in college. It was dumb. _Really_ dumb. I just, like, tied a shirt or something over my eyes and walked around our room for a while...”

Matt is smiling now, despite himself. Even if he’s never actually _seen_ his friend, he can still imagine what it might look like for someone as perpetually clumsy as Foggy to be stumbling around the tiny space of a dorm room blindfolded.

“And?”

“ _And_ I tripped over my shoes or some shit and hit my head on my desk,” Foggy mumbles, heat rising to his face with embarrassment “It bled pretty bad, actually.”

“Oh my God, I _remember_ that,” Matt says, laughing incredulously. “You had to get _stitches_ ! I _knew_ you didn’t get that cut playing Ultimate Frisbee.”

There had been _so many things_ wrong about that lie--first and foremost that Foggy hadn’t played any sports since little league, and Matt strongly suspected he hadn’t decided to take up Ultimate Frisbee in the middle of January during their freshman year. The smell of blood on the corner of his desk had been a major giveaway. Nonetheless, Matt couldn’t come up with any alternative explanation that made any sense, so he’d let it go at the time, and dutifully woken Foggy up at hour-long intervals throughout the night to ensure that he didn’t have a concussion.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Foggy says, laughing along with Matt. “It was the best I could come up with at the time. If I’d known I was talking to a human lie detector, I might have tried to come up with something a little more compelling.”

Foggy’s words prick at still-healing wounds, and Matt’s laughter dies. Listening for lies is something Matt trained himself to do out of _necessity_ \--out of self-defense--after his father died. But over the years, he’s done his best to _not_ listen for Foggy’s lies; to _not_ mistrust and second-guess everything he says. To some extent, it’s worked. But heartbeats are like Tinnitus: Matt can hear them best when he’s actively listening for them, or when the rest of the world is quiet. And Matt and Foggy spend so much time together that Matt can’t always stop himself from listening to Foggy’s heart--lies or no lies. It’s just always _there_.

Matt opens his mouth to apologize--again--for the things he should have told Foggy years ago, but before he gets a word out, Foggy cuts him off.

“Anyway, that’s not the point of all this. The point is, that ever since then, I guess I thought… you know… that that’s how it _was_ for you. I thought that that’s what it was like to _be_ you. When I told you that I felt sorry for you--that’s why. I thought of you going through life like that--never knowing when one of your idiot roommate’s misplaced shoes was going to send you to the hospital for stitches. And it just… sucked.”

Matt exhales slowly. “That’s not what it’s like to be me, Foggy,” he says, furrowing his brow. “That’s not even what it’s like to be blind.”

Foggy laughs halfheartedly. “I know that. Now. But… even now that I know better, it’s still hard to reconcile that experience with… well.. _That_ ,” he says, applying pressure on Matt’s shoulder so that Matt turns to face the opposite end of the bar.

Through the noise of the room--through the pool balls rolling over felt, and the beer sloshing in pint glasses, and the sucking sound of shoe soles tugging against the sticky floor--Matt singles out the sound of the television coming from the direction in which Foggy has turned him. It takes him all of two seconds to recognize the voice of the brunette reporter from the news, and another two seconds to realize she’s reporting on _him_. From the sound of it, someone captured some cell phone footage of Matt stopping a robbery the other night. The fight hadn’t been difficult--Matt walked away with a single bruise on his shin--but it had been three against one, so it had taken some time and skill.

And from Foggy’s point of view, Matt had done it all while blind.

“Look,” Foggy says as Matt turns away from the television, his voice suddenly tired, defeated. “I know you don’t need me fighting your battles, Matt. I know you don’t need me to save you. But… I’ve been looking out for you for so long that I guess… it’s just a hard habit to break.”

Matt closes his eyes and frowns. If he’d actually stopped to think about it at any point in the last ten years, he might have guessed that Foggy would have tried to put himself in his shoes. In retrospect, it certainly explains why he made a more concerted effort to at least keep Matt’s side of the room clean after their first semester. But Matt _hadn’t_ thought about it, because he’d never needed to. Since their first meeting, Foggy had always acted disinterested in Matt’s blindness--the same as he might have acted if Matt had had red hair or slightly-larger-than-average ears. And so, around Foggy at least, Matt stopped being “blind Matt Murdock” and just became _Matt Murdock_ , the guy who could do or be anything he wanted to do or be because there was nothing holding him back--nothing making him any different from everyone else.

And yet, across all these years, he has never truly considered what it must be like for someone else--for someone who is _not_ blind and who does _not_ have amped-up senses, but who can understand, theoretically, what blindness is--to be a witness to Matt’s world. Across all these years, he has never once stopped to consider what it must be like to be Matt Murdock’s best friend. But in this moment, he thinks he’s beginning to understand.

He understands that despite all his bravado, Matt Murdock sometimes misjudges the distance between a landing and the top of a staircase.

He understands that deep within Matt Murdock is a nine-year-old boy who misses his father terribly, and who still searches for him in everything he does; in everyone he saves.

He understands that Matt Murdock’s blood sometimes flows from wounds that are impossibly deep, and that enough of his blood pooling on the floor means the same thing it would mean if it were anyone else’s: fear, suffering, dying.

He understands that Matt Murdock’s pain isn’t a suit that he can take on and off at will, and that sometimes the guilt over all of the things that he _cannot do_ and _should have done_ coils around his body so tightly that he can’t even find the strength to stand.

He understands that all of these are things that Matt Murdock is too proud, to stubborn, too _blind_ to pay much attention to. And he understands that Matt Murdock is also a lucky sonuvabitch that somehow, despite all of this, stumbled into a friendship with someone who _sees_.

Matt can’t quite trace the moment he knew there was a battle raging within him. He likes to think that it was Stick who created it, that he was just another kid until that crazy bastard came along and told him he was something else. But, in his more conscientious moments, he knows that some part of him knew long before Stick, long before the accident, and maybe even long before he first heard his grandmother talk about the Murdock Boys as though they’d been reared by Satan himself. His soul has always been at war with itself, one side fighting for what’s _good_ and one side fighting for what’s _right._

And, just as some part of him has always known about the struggle, he has also always known that, when it’s all over, there will probably only be one victor. Until the night he heard the girl crying as her father slipped into her room, Matt Murdock had been winning. More recently, though, the other side-- _the devil_ \--has been gaining ground. Tonight, more clearly than ever, he understands that just about the only thing keeping Matt Murdock _in_ the fight anymore is the guy sitting next to him. The guy who keeps finding him when he’s lost. The guy who keeps picking him up, dusting him off, and urging him back to the front. The guy who _sees_ Matt Murdock even when Matt Murdock can no longer see himself behind the mask.

And now that guy--his only advocate; his only ally--is beginning to lose hope.

And Matt is _terrified_.

“You’re right,” he says, finally, his voice struggling to rip its way out of his throat. “That guy up there--the guy who puts on a suit and chases down criminals--he doesn’t need you looking out for him. He doesn’t need protection. If you try to fight his battles for him, you’re just going to wind up getting hurt--or worse. And I don’t want that for you. I don’t want that for anyone.”

Matt carefully removes his glasses and sets them on the bar. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s wished he wasn’t blind. The night he woke up in the hospital after the accident was the first; listening to his father win his final fight was the second; the first time he made Elektra laugh was the third. And this moment, here, with Foggy, is the fourth. He wants to be able to look his friend in the eyes--not just past them or over his shoulder--and make him truly understand what he is saying.

“You’re also wrong, though. Because you know more about me than anyone. And that’s not an accident, Fog. I _need_ you looking out for me. I need to know you to have my back. I always have. And despite the sometimes insurmountable evidence to the contrary, I always will.”

Matt doesn’t realize how much he’d been anticipating Foggy’s response until he doesn’t get one. As Foggy sighs and reaches for his beer, the words Matt had expected to hear echo in the silence between them.

_I know._

_You don’t have to worry about that._

_I’ll always be here._

Instead, what Foggy finally says is, “Buddy… I gotta be honest with you. It’s getting harder and harder for me to tell the difference between the two of you.”

Matt swallows as his beer churns in his stomach. In his head, a voice sneers, _Fine. You tried. It didn’t work. Let him go._ But Matt can’t accept that. He can’t accept that now, in this moment, he has to give up on everything he has fought for--on everything Foggy has fought for. He can’t accept that this is the moment in which Matt Murdock finally stays down.

Matt takes a drink to hide his trembling hands. Then, slowly, carefully, he reaches for his glasses and places them over his eyes.

“I’ll make it easy for you tonight,” he says, fighting to keep his voice even and light. “Tonight it’s only me. And my full attention, as requested. I promise.”

It’s not much, but he hopes it’s enough. Even if it just delays the inevitable--even if it just prolongs the bloody, angry war within him--Matt hopes it at least buys him more time. More time to figure out who he really wants to win. And, if necessary, more time to figure out how to say goodbye.

Foggy sighs again. Against his better judgment, Matt concentrates on his friend’s heartbeat. To his relief, it’s slow, steady. Seconds later, Foggy reaches out and touches his bottle to Matt’s. When he speaks, there’s a hint of a smile--a strained smile, but a smile nonetheless-- in his voice.

“In that case, I think we’re gonna need another round.”

  
Matt closes his eyes and exhales. Deep within him, Matt Murdock stands, unsteadily, and claws his way back into the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who has read this, and for everyone who has taken the time to comment. I hope everyone enjoyed it!


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